


Thief

by conchepcion



Series: Clothes are optional [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complications, F/M, Humour, Nudity, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:52:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchepcion/pseuds/conchepcion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She only intended to get some parts he'd borrowed from Bart's back. Winner of Best Humor SAMFAS 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Gloves –  _check._

Cooler –  _check._

Confidence –  _decreasing._

It was a simple enough plan; wearing clothes that she was sure wouldn't make a racket in case anyone was home, soft supple ballerinas that she'd slip off, before she padded barefoot across the wooden floors of the kitchen, while she slowly opened the fridge door, until she got the parts back placing them into her cooler, intending to get out before anyone would notice.

Since saying she'd misplaced some paperwork while scratching her head idly didn't work - for pretending to have no idea about who'd severed a foot off a body that'd previously had both did make her seem less than serious, so it was apparent that Sherlock's testing's would need to be mentioned in the paperwork from this point onwards.

The fact that it had been going on for years was disturbing. Other people wanted coffee (not that he didn't ask for that), or possibly chocolate – Sherlock however wanted human flesh, which he then exhibited in his fridge scaring the living daylights of his flatmate or landlady. The parts never did look quite as good when they were returned, but she usually fixed it up to the best of her ability.

She didn't really feel tempted to complain, though she did give him an earful of - -  _sighs_ , if she were completely frank about it. It wasn't that she didn't own the ability to curse him to hell, of course, and she had all right to do so, if this was to continue that was, because soon enough he'd have to brandish a slip from his big brother to be allowed to do anything at her lab or morgue for once.

Not that any of the parts were technically hers, but she'd feel better with some paperwork under her belt, since lying wasn't exactly her best skill.

So, there she was in the middle of the night, rummaging through his fridge, slipping body parts into plastic bags, before she placed them into the cooler, hoping that if the rumours were correct – nobody was home.

221B was dead quiet at least, so it seemed like an easy enough job, and she was glad for the spare key she'd gotten in case of emergencies. She'd still warned Mrs Hudson of her inexplicable entry and intent by giving her an advance phone call. The fact that the landlady also confirmed their departure from 221B settled her nerves.

While bended down, she shut the cooler snuggly, smiled to herself, pleased by her own deviousness, until she heard the distinct sound of a door opening. It was not the front, followed by a questioning Mrs Hudson – oh – no the door that had slid open was the most mysterious room of all; his bedroom.

Her eyes widened, for she soon would be caught, and a conversation she'd rather not have would ensue. Any other person would have risen, taken the cooler and run for it. That would be logical, however, she felt like a thief in the night, and considering what she was currently doing – sneaking his possessions away in the dark – it was true.

She knew nonetheless that it was her right. Indeed it was, yet thinking on her feet was possibly not a good idea after a late shift; for instead of running, instead of facing a conversation with the man she shoved the cooler, as quietly as she could underneath the kitchen table, before crawling besides it.

The minute she'd done that she bemoaned the stupid idea, but it was too late to turn back now. How could she have been so thick? Like he'd never spot her hidden underneath his kitchen table? The man had sharp eagle eyes, beyond excellent hearing for whispered conversations, and would most likely smell out the combination of her flowery perfume mingled with sweat.

Typical, that he had to be home early, and typical that she was hidden underneath his kitchen table like a small child. A giggle almost escaped her lips, the minute she realised how senseless she was, and how much better it was to have a discussion with him as proper adults, but the minute bare feet tread past – a white sheet dangling behind said legs she held her breath.

Appearing from under the table now would induce a torrent of questions, but she could just hurry out shouting out nonsense, which would lead to no fuss at the moment. Of course that was until the white sheet was dropped in a heap on the kitchen floor, and her mouth hung open in shock.

She'd heard the story of him in Buckingham Palace – amused herself of the fact that he'd only worn a sheet, but he certainly wasn't naked now, right? A slight glance in the right direction showed her full view of his arse, and her suspicion was absolutely confirmed.

If her eyes had been wide at being discovered – they were now that of saucers at his being absolutely starker's and heading for the living room. He'd see her, underneath the table, of course – and now she wouldn't be silly – she'd be a full on pervert. She couldn't exactly proceed to ask him why on earth he'd dropped trou, though it would seem natural, as it was his flat.

A flat that he shared with John – this wasn't the point where she turned full blown pervert, right?

There would be no way of explaining oneself out of that, but John's constant line of girlfriend's begged to differ – however they  _were_  exes.

Her mind reeled, especially when she understood that he'd settled on his familiar black chair – bare skin on leather, and realised that by sheer luck she was hidden by John's chair – of course if she wanted to fully see him – she'd have to twist her head in a certain angle, and possibly be caught.

Needless to say, despite her curiosity she brought her head back out of pure decency, only to catch sight of the sheet reminding her of her situation. It was very difficult not to be reminded of it, since she was positioned quite awkwardly underneath the table – but how on earth hadn't he noticed?

She'd half-way expected a snarky comment the minute he'd padded past the table, but encountered none – instead she was Molly, being a complete nutter underneath his kitchen table, while he was apparently having a nudist-mo in the living room.

Her legs cramped, while her skin flushed at the idea that he was naked, and she could have a completely innocent view without him ever knowing –  _ok_  – he'd probably know. Since after this she'd probably stare at him an indecent amount while he was clothed, but he'd probably misconstrue it as just typical Molly-behaviour. He knew she thought he was fit, since she'd accidentally let it slip once – so it wasn't a complete -, the thought became lost the minute she heard a deep growl.

No, it wasn't really a growl, but a moan verging on animalistic.

The hairs on her neck stood up, her skin prickling from head to toe, as she clung to the cooler in front of her.

Curiosity killed the cat –  _she'd_ be murdered before sunrise. Slowly, excruciatingly slow she edged her head, so she could have a look on what was going on. His dark curls were lank, falling perfectly on his face, eyes shut, and lips parted, neck tense, as his hands were quite evidently on his –

She'd gone from thief to  _voyeurist_  – quickly she drew her head back, trying to keep her mind from jumbling up, as images of him stroking his rather – no – no –  _no_  – she was not going to think about it.

If she'd ever been in such a position herself, and found someone had been watching – she'd – well – she'd certainly run for the hills. Sherlock, however – Sherlock who saw sex as something - Well, what did Sherlock see sex, as exactly? And why was she thinking about that, and not an escape plan instead?  _Oh god._

It's not like she could pop up out there, try to be seductive, and say, "Let me assist you," like that was actually going to happen.

He'd toss her arse out of the flat immediately. Instead she leaned her head to the side, eyes flickering casually over the man. Well, not at all casually over his spread firm legs, his sculpted chest, his long fingers stroking his delightfully – _back on the subject, Miss Hooper!_

This was madness, this was absolutely mental, but he looked rather beautiful like this; with a concentrated expression on his face, beads of perspiration appearing on his forehead. Another guttural moan being uttered – heat flooding her below, as she hated herself for being there, while another part was happy – for she'd never get to experience this otherwise. There she was, just assuming she'd caught him naked, before awkwardly escaping the flat – now she was too far-gone. She couldn't leave now, especially not now, as another moan was being whispered – a moan that turned into a name,  _"Molly."_

Her name – he had said her name.

No, he couldn't have, but there it was, "Molly," repeated like a prayer, and she felt her cheeks grow impossibly hot.

He had moaned it.

He was on the chair naked moaning her name, and she was hidden under his kitchen table like a pervert listening – occasionally watching, when her eyes begged for it.

An unmistakable shiver ran down her spine, while she tried fixing her gaze on her cooler.

Yes, think about the original problem – the actual issue and not Sherlock Holmes moaning your name while touching himself.

Right, that was obviously not going to work. The clever detective, with his buttoned-up shirts, dark coat was certainly distracting her mind from having coherent thoughts.

She took a steadying breath, trying to quickly think of how on earth she was ever going to get out of the flat, even if her feet did not want to budge.

She could –

1\. Wait for him to finish.

2\. Run.

3\. Go out there.

Of course, it could be another Molly; a voice in her head said. Maybe Sherlock had some twisted fantasy where she'd partake in some odd fashion, but it didn't actually mean she was the fantasy itself. Or? Now, she was just being ridiculous, but then again she was a woman in the middle of her thirties hiding underneath a kitchen table. If there was one thing she was – it was ridiculous.

That's when the moaning stopped – only the sound of him shifting in his chair was heard, his hands roaming about, and his rasping breath filled the silence.

"I never knew you enjoyed voyeurism?" he said.

She blinked furiously, breath hitched in her throat, "When attempting to smuggle anything out. It would do best not to ring Mrs Hudson first. She has never been good at keeping anything quiet for very long," he continued, as she could only release a single puff of air in her shock.

He knew she was there.

She could physically not move, her limbs had stopped listening to her, as her entire being was caught in the full blast of shame. Oh, she was the very picture of red. There she was caught in the act, but – he'd known. He'd known all that time she was underneath the table - he had to, and he'd just gone along with it all?

There was something very wrong with this picture.

"I will cover myself up, if that is what is keeping you," he drawled, the sound of his fingers tapping the edge of the chair in a rather hurried tempo like drums in her head.

She bit her lip, steadying her breath, as she finally returned from under the table – her arms and legs positively creaking loudly – besides her heart beat thumping forcefully in her chest.

Molly soon brought the cooler out from under the table, busying herself with it, as she held it in her hand, and fixed her eyes above his head out of the window. She'd tried not to look at him, and she would especially not look at him now – for she could only imagine his face –  _smug_ , "It's – it's – err – fine – I'll just leave now," she said barely audible, wishing that her hair wasn't in a ponytail, and was in fact covering her face.

"With the body-parts?" he asked, when she'd started out of the kitchen, standing now in the middle of the living room – eyes fixed on the yellow smiley on the wall.

There was always something interesting to look at, in his flat that was – besides him that was – _oh_  – too late – she looked.

Her eyes were quickly up on the ceiling, brows knitted, a hand calmly placed on her hip, "They're – you know – mine, after all," she said a bit more clearly now.

"That you had let me borrow, Molly," said Sherlock.

Her knees wobbled, when he said her name.

"Of course, I did – Sher- Sherlock, but these are people - and I – I need to bring them back at some point."

"What if I said it was important? That always seems to sway you."

She could hear the smirk on his face, plastered there in all its glory, as she almost stuttered her reply, "Well – you know – its – err – it's always important to you, right now, but that's because you're bored."

That sentence made more sense in her head.

"You're right – things do get dull – but what other  _activities_ would you want me to partake in?"

He was certainly not making her exit any easier, for there she stood more or less molesting her mouth, rolling her lower lip between her teeth furiously, "Well – err – you could of course – you know-," she started not knowing what to say.

"Obviously," he said easily, "Sex."

It was as if he'd said weather or any other ordinary commonplace word, but this was a word she'd never dreamt of hearing him say especially in front of her, except describing the sex of a deceased that was.

This was like any other scene, a scene that would happen in her flat, or at the lab, but she'd usually wake up during it. Was she even awake? It surely had to be some sordid dream that she'd wake up mid-dream-orgasm, before giggling into her flowery patterned duvet.

He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, so she tried to continue, not knowing if this would be her last word, "Yes – yes – there's –  _that_ – I was actually going to suggest exercise, actually."

That wasn't particularly saucy, if she'd known what she'd walked into, when getting there she might not be so shaken, but she supposed that the cooler filled with body-parts, or the fact that her legs felt cramped stilled every attempt.

"A quick vigorous jog is your answer? Well, that's certainly not where I expected this conversation to go – however – do I look like I need it?"

She shook her head without looking, she needn't get another eyeful really, and speech was starting to properly fail her, but she managed to clear her throat, "I'm just – I'm just going to let myself out now," she said heading towards the door.

"Molly," he said making her stop in her track, her back to him now, so she needn't pretend she was interested in the architecture of the flat at least.

Was this his way of stopping her from ever reclaiming things? It was certainly working. She might as well drop the cooler on the floor, and give it up as a bad job. Nobody would blame her, really, and she'd get out without blushing anymore. Well, until she was later tangled up in her sheets like a heated mess, or when he'd arrive unexpectedly at Bart's.

"Do you like it?" he said, as she tried curling her toes into his carpet.

That worked when one felt queasy after a flight, maybe it would work on the light-headedness she was experiencing.

"What?" she said carefully, and upon saying that – she heard him leave the chair, taking languid steps towards something – that something was apparently her.

"Do you like it?" he questioned once more, now however the question was breathed down upon her bare neck, tickling the loose hairs of her ponytail.

"Sex?" she said quietly.

Her lips started to practically quiver after the word was uttered, he said not a word, still breathing deeply behind her, "Err – well – I thought – you know – anyway – it's quite-," his mouth found her neck – a kiss gently bestowed. Her ability to speak evaporated – for he nibbled on her – tasting her salty skin.

She dropped the cooler – oh it would not look good – in the morning, but right now – with him pulling her towards him, his arms snaking around her waist, pressing her against his absolutely bare skin -, "Well – do you, Molly?"

"Is – what?" she managed to say.

She was soon silenced once again, as he stroked the flimsy fabric of her blouse, his hands caressing her breasts wordlessly, and she could only sigh, "You do that quite a great deal around me already – I don't note any difference-," he said.

Something was wrong, she suddenly felt like they were having two different conversations entirely, despite them being in the same room, or the fact he was fondling her nipples through her blouse.

She gasped, as one of his hands slipped down to her trousers, opening the zipper in a swift movement – hand slipping onto her obviously soaked knickers, and she could only throw her head back onto his chest. He eased her hair out of the ponytail, releasing her now wild curls, as she bit down a moan, "Sher- you're-,"

"This is no different from any other dream – though it feels different," he murmured.

Dream – the word dropped like lead in her belly and stayed, "Wait – what?" she said startled.

A dream?

"You certainly have never said that before," he said in what could be described as rather petulant.

"Sherlock?" she said, releasing herself from his grip reluctantly, shoving him away.

There he was, properly before her, and she looked up in his hooded gaze – his eyes red – pupils entirely gone, "You're – oh god – oh my god-," she said horrified realizing that this man was not acting out of sober passion.

"You're asking questions – you're not supposed to ask questions," he said resembling that of a child, despite his nudity dictating otherwise.

Oh God.

_Oh dear God._

Of course he just had to be absolutely drugged out of his mind! – She'd heard mentions of the drugs, gossip circulating about, but she certainly never expected to find him dabbling in them now, at his age.

Sherlock however didn't seem to catch up with her distress. He seemed merrily annoyed by her lack of action – which was that she still wore clothing apparently, as he ripped open her blouse; the buttons tumbling to the floor.

Her maroon bra was now visible to all, especially to his drug-riddled eyes, but she slapped his eager hands away quickly. She was not going to have him like this, or ever – probably, but even if she'd been so very close to it – sense had fought and won.

But, when, "Sherlock?" was said by another familiar voice from the upstairs bedroom – all sense washed away, and she was left with complete fear.

_John._

Well, this was a scene; Sherlock naked, while her blouse was ripped open, as he attempted to properly tug it off her – she slapped his hands away again. He flinched sullenly, as if she'd denied him sweets.

If she hadn't been so distracted – if she'd only dared look him in the eye during their conversation she would have realised – but now – a door was being opened upstairs, and she could only rely on her instinct (even how shoddy that was).

Molly quickly tried pulling Sherlock by his hand, but he tried to draw it away. In a fit of desperation, she planted a light kiss on his lips, only to be overwhelmed when he reciprocated deepening it.

It was their first kiss, and he was absolutely gone. Well, not, physically – for the tongue that attempted to slip itself into her mouth spoke volumes. She, despite her weak knees, or the fact that she'd almost started to moan herself stood her ground. Pulling away from him, she flashed her eyes towards the kitchen, and he willingly obeyed her. She grabbed his hand, took a full sprint to his bedroom - neglecting cooler – neglecting his sheet, before shoving him inside. Her intention was to hide underneath the table again, for John would probably be half-asleep, and would not see her, but Sherlock was having none of that. He grabbed her forcefully by the waist, clasping her towards him like an anchor, and she only saw the bedroom door close in front of her.

Bollocks.

She drew herself away from him, gestured frantically to the bed, which he sat down upon with a raised brow. Even drugged he was ever so snarky, even drugged he still observed patiently, but his eyes were not there. Those blue imaginable hues had not the same familiar shine, and  _bloody hell_  – John was heading for the bedroom. Before Sherlock could grab her she crawled underneath the bed, only to find Sherlock pointedly staring at her, his curls dangling to the floor, as his brow was furrowed at her actions, but she pushed him away, so he wouldn't reveal her presence.

The door to the bedroom opened.

"Have you been up?" said John who'd obviously brought along the sheet by the look of it. She kept entirely still; glad that John hadn't come to the assumption that she was hidden underneath the bed, but who on earth would ever come to that conclusion?

Sherlock only groaned in reply, "Right – are you OK, at least?" said John, before swiftly adding, "Your sheet was in the kitchen."

"There was a dream in my bed," said Sherlock groggily.

John laughed, "OK – Sherlock – well – soon enough the drugs will be out of your system. That's what they said in the hospital – this is what you get from testing something yourself – you git."

Oh, bugger it all, John knew, which meant Sherlock hadn't chosen this – at least, so that worry eased off her.

"Drugs?" repeated Sherlock.

"Ok – you know what – I'll sit in the living room for now, just in case you get up again – you shouldn't really be on your feet right now – I'll watch the telly, but I won't put it on so loud – so if you need me just shout, right?"

Sherlock grunted.

"Night, then – do try to get some sleep."

At that the door shut again, footsteps vanished, and the muted sound of a telly was heard in the distance.

Molly felt like groaning herself – normal people didn't do this – had she been normal she would have explained that she was just getting the body parts - found Sherlock naked, and he'd attempted to take her top off – and managed to open her trousers – yes, John would  _absolutely_  believe that.

It was the truth though, which was even stranger.

Oh, this was just her luck.

Why wasn't John a heavy sleeper?

Why was she still underneath the bed?

She crawled from under it, catching sight of Sherlock's now covered form – all except his chest of course, as he looked at her curiously, "Why are you still here?" he said in a whisper, his mouth parted in surprise.

She was astonished he knew that he should whisper, and she found herself wondering what on earth Molly in his dreams did that warranted such a reaction in the first place. Or, more importantly – why was he dreaming of her? It had to be the drugs – she wore a white coat usually – he obviously was convinced she could help, but for once in her life – she didn't believe that thought for a second. No, the evidence all pointed in a certain direction.

"Yes, I'm still here," she said, hands on hips, trying to avoid thinking that she was in his bedroom, and he was barely covered by his sheet.

He was after all – drugged. That word kept her grounded, that thought managed to make her say, "Now, you're going to sleep, right?" she said in the most motherly fashion she could produce. It was not very difficult, since his face was earnestly quite innocent-like now.

"Molly – can you stay until the morning?" he asked.

"I'll have to, I suppose," she said with a slight smile, her eyes going to the door, as she knew beyond that – there was a friend who kept guard.

"You never do," said Sherlock with a sigh lying properly down on his pillow, a defeated look to him, causing her to blink stupidly.

"I – I – will now, though," she said hastily, and a smile grazed his lips – an honest one. One she couldn't exactly say she'd ever seen before, and so she lay down besides him trying to cover up her chest, with the remains of her blouse. Sherlock noted that she slept on top of the sheet, but he slipped it away from under her – until it also covered her. She peered at him curiously, still trying to close her blouse. The buttons were out there, but John would most likely not notice. He'd suppose Sherlock had wild nightly adventures, and he wasn't very wrong at that.

Sherlock's hand drew hers away from her blouse, and she narrowed her eyes, "Sherlock – no – if you keep doing that, I won't be here in the morning," she hissed, as he seemed to want to do more than just that gesture.

"Fine," he more or less snapped, and she was worried that John heard, but by the low chuckle in the living room – he hadn't.

She could only imagine how the morning would turn out.


	2. Chapter 2

Bedroom -  _not hers_

Horror –  _exceptionally large_

A simple plan never turned out simple, especially if it collided with the consulting detective in some way, or the other, intentional or not. It was those moments when she overthought certain aspects, like what she wore, what she said, or just in general letting her mind over-work itself into a stupor of silliness that it went absolutely wrong. Those situations were perhaps not entirely similar to the one last night, but this was the closest to the result she had wanted the other incidents to have; from wearing a bit of lipstick, to showing off her office-romance (later known as Moriarty), or even a silly Christmas present.

None of those had ended with his hand down her knickers, but then again in neither of those had he been drugged. It wasn't as if she could expect that sort of thing, exactly, they were accidents really – the man didn't dabble these days. The fact that she'd gotten very unlucky was just pure – luck, she supposed, but she knew that simple things in his presence never turned out that way. Any incident would become close to horrifying, ending with her overanalysing every aspect, until she poured wine down her throat to numb the thoughts.

Since when nudity was involved, interlocked with passionate stolen kisses, and John's footsteps in the background; it was obvious that her brain disconnected entirely, and un-planned was probably thrice as alarming really.

It was after that point, tucked underneath the duvet in his bedroom that a sense of false security had come over her, as she was hasty to believe that she'd manage to sneak out without either party noticing her presence. She'd wait to Sherlock fell asleep, check if John was still up, and none would be the wiser, except perhaps Sherlock who'd remember the whole of last night, but it was perhaps for the best. She didn't want him unexpectedly showing up at Bart's the next week, not that she'd put it against him to do that exactly, but if she recalled he hadn't wandered into her halls often of late.

So, there it was, the new strategy – ingenuous enough, really.

 _If_ she ignored the fact that Sherlock was less than a metre away, right besides her starker's, taking deep languid breaths, but that was fine – he was drugged – she was a sensible woman after all – not intending to take any advantage. It was just the fact that she never accounted for the sound of the telly to continue into the very night, almost making her consider slipping out to give John a furtive glance, before sprinting away pretending like it didn't faze her at all. That idea made her blood run cold, but it was still a possibility to be had.

She fell asleep at some point, not the worst thing to happen, as it was difficult not to, despite the overwhelming heat that made her wrench the covers off her every once and again – only to have them slipped on by  _her patient_  who seemed quite perspective to her presence in his bed. Her idea was just going to be postponed, or so she thought, but no – the minute her eyes slipped open brushed by sunshine she knew.

Like any one would know, of course, by the all-too soft sensation of the Egyptian cotton, or the fact that Sherlock's hand pressed upon her bare waist was a dead-give-away.

She – was -  _naked_.

No clothes.

Just full on nudity.

Not a thread on her, not a wisp, except possibly the hair on her head. The idea of escaping the flat evaporated into thin air, as of course neither men would notice her, but the whole of London would most likely do. Assuming that she wouldn't get arrested the minute she stepped out of the door wearing only her shoes that was. At least she had footwear in the hallway, not that those could get her exceptionally far, as bits would certainly wobble, despite her best wishes. She knew that somehow Lestrade would get whiff of it, and the whole of Scotland Yard would wonder why she of all people wandered out of Sherlock's flat at the crack of dawn – starker's. They'd look to John, even Mrs Hudson, before they'd even consider Sherlock, or perhaps they'd think she'd gotten into some trouble that caused her to misplace her kit in the first place, unlikely as that was.

No one would come across the idea that it was Sherlock's bed that she slipped out of, if there wasn't photographic evidence to support the fact, but she knew – that she was certainly naked – in the man's bed –with his warm hands pressed on her flesh, but  _nothing_  – had happened.

She would certainly have remembered that, difficult not to really, and he'd been fairly good after she reprimanded him the first time, when he'd tried to divulge her off her flimsy blouse.

He had finally gotten his hands on her however, most likely to relieve her from drowning his sheets in sweat, but he could have at least in his drugged mind let her undergarments alone. She supposed that it was fair in a way, to allow him a look, but she hoped that he hadn't made a ceremony of it exactly. Somehow she'd managed to be completely out of it, not noticing his skills in divulging people's clothing – a skill he could do without really.

Of course, one could conclude that if he'd taken off her clothes, then they would be somewhere – they weren't. Not one single article of clothing occupied the room. If one overlooked his own that was, and she craned her neck to the floor – _no_  – the half-open closet –  _no_  – but they'd obviously taken a trip out of the room. Perhaps all that was needed was a proper look, but crawling on the floor in the nude wasn't particularly normal in someone else's bedroom (depending on the setting). She was barely covered by the duvet to begin with, lying besides the supposed culprit, who had the most serene expression on his face, mirroring the one he had last night, when he – touched –  _oh, don't even think about that now!_

Now she was flushed and naked; two things that weren't particularly good to be, in the bed of Sherlock Holmes. Not that she ever assumed she'd ever be in the mildly scented lavender sheets of the man who haunted her corridors (or dreams), or that she'd ever find him in such a state as last night.

The state being one that she never ever assumed she'd ever see in her life, perhaps without being dead first that was, but now she had. She had ogled and this was her punishment; nudity. Well, she had been rather warm during the night, so at least she was rather cool now, if one ignored the flushness of her cheeks.

"Oh God," she muttered clinging the sheet to her front, trying to get up ever so slightly in the bed, without waking her sleeping-partner, who had his head face-down into the pillow now, as her face grew even more steadily red.

She could take his clothes, perhaps?

But she supposed, that if she were very ill fated he'd wake up to her wrapping herself into his purple shirt. Not that she'd specifically go after that one shirt (which she confessed was her favourite on the man, besides the black one), but it seemed oddly personal.

He'd probably think something of it at least, and she surely hoped he remembered last night. The worst would be if he didn't remember, because then everything she'd do would become highly suspicious. After all the man was rather out of his mind, more or less muttering gibberish, and doing things that were wildly out of his regular comfort-zone she supposed. He'd even clung to her repeatedly through the night, keeping close, avoiding touching her, but now - he did.

He was surprisingly needy, and she was unsurprisingly not complaining, except the closeness did involve his rather pressing  _need_ against her thigh. There was something rather dirty without being able to see him fully now, except his well-defined torso, that was, but she knew she shouldn't be there.

She wasn't allowed. If he was entirely himself he'd accuse her of having tried to seduce him, or well – he'd just have accused her of nicking his things, shutting the fridge door on her face, before she in irritation tried prying it open again.

That's what would happen within reason, if he were himself, that was, but he hadn't been. Instead they'd opened several doors that would make her meeting his eye at Bart's rather difficult without blushing.

Molly swallowed, her eyes flickering to his dark dishevelled curls, as his shallow breathing was the only sound in the room, besides her own over-worked heart. She certainly didn't feel the need to breathe at this point, not knowing how to disentangle herself, or what her plan would be to do exactly.

Steal his clothes was an idea, then get out, give a wave to John, and pretend like absolutely nothing, but she knew there'd be a heap of questions – of why – more or less  _why_.

Why was she there?

To get her belongings back, one of which was still out there, and she dreaded to think that John would manage to put two and two together really, or maybe he'd assume that Sherlock was being nice in his drugged state. The fact that the cooler had the logo of Bart's stuck on the side of it didn't exactly help her in any way, except that everyone knew that Sherlock was privy of nicking things if he needed them – so she hoped that John was less intelligent in the wee hours of the morning.

She rubbed her face, moaning softly to herself in annoyance, knowing that this morning would perhaps be even worse than the actual night had been, if she actually did manage to plan a way to get out without waking the man, or John. Amidst this thought, while she gave to sigh, thinking it couldn't get any worse - the bedroom door opened with a soft thud.

Her heart stopped – all colour drained from her face, as she caught the blue eyes of a dumbstruck John who gaped at her profusely.

_Oh – dear - God._

He was mid-sentence the minute he'd wandered in -, "Sherlock, I thought you-," and the coffee cup he held in his hand was on the verge of being poured down his front, "Mo – Molly," said John after shutting and opening his mouth repeatedly, shaking his head trying to remove the cobwebs, as he stared at her like she was imaginary.

She rather hoped she was a dream at this point, or that she was stuck in one, a nightmare, which in a dream-state she hoped would turn rather naughty, except this premise was entirely real, and would most likely not turn out that way at all.

"I – I-," she tried to say, her mouth tasting horrible, and every word a difficult attempt, as she felt Sherlock stirring against her, a soft groan uttered into the pillow, as John said in an all-too cheery voice, "I'll just – make breakfast then," shutting the door in disbelief.

She covered her face in her hand, wanting to give a muffled shriek, except she thought better of it, since now everything was out in the open. Now, she was faced with a possibility of an enquiry from John who'd probably try to avoid it for some time, until he finally let loose at the lab, when she was unfortunately left alone with him. Oh, the sheer horror of having to explain. John really probably did think that she'd misused Sherlock, or even worse pitied her for it. John probably thought that she could never have the man soberly, but more or less out of his wits.

Sherlock had dreamt about her though. She was after all the dream in his bed, and she almost giggled, for she at least allowed herself to blush at that, while trying to chastise herself for giving into the idea that there might be some lingering truth in it after all.

That maybe in the deep recesses of his mind – she was there – that she actually did occupy some space in his  _mind palace_ , that maybe, just maybe – oh, who was she kidding? He was just saying loads of rubbish, that barely made any sense to anyone, and it was difficult to understand it. Sherlock thought he was dreaming, and she could barely disagree with him on that score, as it sort of filled the criteria of hers too.

Only in dreams, of course, but there she was – wrapped in his duvet, clinging to the sheets, so her knuckles turned white, as she didn't know whether or not she hoped he'd wake. A part of her didn't want to leave really, despite it all she'd been happy that he wanted her to stay last night, pulling her forcefully in his bedroom – fulfilling every fantasy in a way, while trying to pry open her blouse, but she knew he was out of his mind. She would never misuse him that way, for she was certain he'd never do that to her – as consent given when someone was without his or her faculties, was never consent.

It was like a neatly wrapped lie, pretending that didn't matter, but it did – especially to her. She didn't want to look in his eyes, feeling the guilt, and she was guilty enough as it was without that flitting in. If he were to awake with the memories of last night, she'd ask where her clothes were, and she'd leave – if he didn't; he'd ask questions, and she'd possibly have to lie – a lot. It wasn't like she could outright say, "Oh, I caught you having a bit of a – a - wank." No, that was certainly not going to happen, and he might not even believe her. Even if he were drugged he'd certainly not even consider himself driven to those kind of urges, or trying to fulfil those urges with her helping.

But – John knew she was there, he knew, and Sherlock was sleeping. She could still leave, since considering; it was maybe after all rather unlikely that John actually  _would_  ever dare to breach the subject. If Sherlock did wake, it wasn't the worst of incidents; she'd just wordlessly leave his room, and let him deal with the outcome himself – after all – this was his entire fault.

Right, she barely believed herself there, but she still had to go.

Slowly, she tried to pry off his fingers from her waist; one curling away easily, the second a bit more persistent, the third relenting, the fourth tricky, and the fifth proved to be difficult, as his hand soon re-attached itself to her waist with a significant tightened grip – his eyes shifting underneath his eyelids.

Molly looked at him uncertainly for a minute, her hand on top of his, as she tried yet again to shift it – the full palm this time, but his eyes opened.

She gasped.

His blue eyes blinked heavily, as he lifted his head an inch from the pillow. She felt his hand tense underneath hers, as she hastily pulled hers away, and he hurriedly released her waist.

She held her breath, her brown eyes taking in his confused expression. Sherlock opened his mouth, seemed to give it some thought, before closing it again.

Instead he raised a brow at her.

Her cheeks were the proper shade of scarlet; the hairs on her arms upright, as the full bout of nerves kicked in.

She tried to not look guilty, but it was difficult, as his expression was that of accusation, "Molly," he said in that familiar baritone voice that was now a bit gravely in the enunciation.

Oh, how she longed to avoid any form of questions, but it was difficult considering her position, that position being in his bed that was.

"Hi," she said in what was more or less a squeak.

Of course, she was reduced to a schoolgirl, waiting to be scolded by her older professor. It sounded terribly wrong (though strangely fitting, besides… _no don't_ ).

She tried to look casual, really, failing miserably, as he slowly sat up besides her, the duvet still covering him, and she was grateful for that; any conversation would be impossible if she had to endure any more nudity – her own at this point was enough.

"Yes?" she said, avoiding his eyes that quickly scanned the room, until they once again returned to her.

She could feel his scrutiny, and she bravely steered her head so she looked at him. It was ridiculous trying to be embarrassed at this point – it had gone beyond that, it was beyond being flushed at this stage, "Why are you in my bed?" he said.

Well, that solved the riddle of whether he remembered or not.

_Bollocks._

All words failed her however, as she sat there flabbergasted. Now she was just a mad woman tucked into his bed, for that was evident by the severe look on his face, as his brows were knitted and his mouth was a thin line. She rather hoped he'd suggest breakfast like John did, at least she wouldn't be required to talk, while she chewed. In the distance she heard John making a clatter in the kitchen, obviously trying to pretend like there was nothing at all wrong with this image.

"Oh - you know," she said, and she could almost feel the laughter bubbling upwards, as she tried her best to push it down – turning beet-root red instead.

_You know, what? What are you saying?_

Well, she couldn't exactly stop herself from blushing - that was physically impossible.

Sherlock was naked, and so was she.

They were two naked adults sharing a bed, perhaps not entirely with consent at the moment. One of them having been the one propositioning himself to her quite convincingly last night, but he was probably assuming that she was the one doing that right now.

"Do enlighten me," he said, and she could almost detect a hint of pleasure, or well she liked to pretend she did, because he seemed rather mad really.

"Err-," she said – she was off to a bloody great start with that opener, "I – went here to pick up some parts you'd borrowed-," at that she faltered.

How on earth was she going to explain this?  _Oh, you tried to seduce me, and I hid under your bed to hide from John, because that's how my stupid mind works under proper levels of stress!_

"And you ended up in my bed –  _how_  – exactly?"

_Oh._

Yes, how did that happen?

Her mind raced, properly going through a catalogue of excuses that she could conjure up, as she tried to look away from his penetrating gaze, "Oh -  _that_ – well – that's just – you know – I – err – you didn't want to be alone." At least she was getting somewhere, since he looked particularly absorbed, from what she could see from the corner of her eye that was.

"I didn't want to be alone?" he repeated, and it did sound extremely stupid, when he repeated it to her.

Well, he hadn't exactly wanted to be left alone.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" she said finally finding her resolve, and knowing that it should perhaps have been the first she said, "Anything – at all?"

He furrowed his brows at that; mouth pressed together, "No."

That certainly didn't help her, so it was good it wasn't the first she had to say.

"So, I suppose it won't help if I ask where my clothes are?"  _Or how you got them off without me ever noticing?_

"Not exactly," he said frowning.

He was obviously blaming her for that, but it wasn't her fault she was naked. It was entirely his.

She opened her mouth, closing it, until she opened it again, "You know – we could talk about it another time,"  _when I'm actually dressed._

"I would rather have it explained now, Molly."

It wasn't as if she could get out of it, exactly, taking the duvet from him and trotting out with it in search for her clothes. He would perhaps feel a bit unnerved by that action, and she only felt unnerved by the idea. After all she'd get another look of him naked, and he didn't know that she'd already gotten an eyeful. Not that she would look now, or complain if she by accident saw more of him.

"Yes – well – err -," she fumbled; _pathetic attempt at a sentence there._

"Do skip the part where you were taking my parts back, since Mrs Hudson was kind enough to inform me of that fact a while back."

_Yes, you said._

She scowled at him, annoyed over the fact that he looked utterly handsome there he sat, his curls a mess, but still strikingly perfect in their clutter, or the fact that he was rather unashamed of his unclothed form. She wasn't ashamed of her body, she just didn't expect it to be lying right besides his, that was, especially – him.

"I thought you weren't here – you showed up – and then – then -,"  _you tried to seduce me,_ sounded entirely wrong, "- I noticed you were drugged."  _Saved by the truth._

He looked puzzled, his expression distant for a minute, until it returned to hers fully.

His mouth quirked upwards in a small smile, "I was bored."

"So you willingly drugged yourself?" she said gaping at him, momentarily distracted from her own plight.

"It was quicker."

"It was careless, Sherlock. You should have given it to me to test," she said, shocked that she found strength to at all manage to reprimand him, but he had been an idiot. If he hadn't done it, they wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.

"We were not in London at the time, Molly – now would you please continue."

Molly sighed, "OK – I - err - I tried getting you to bed, but you wouldn't go alone – so I went in with you, except I was wearing clothes at the time."

His eyes briefly glanced over the duvet covering her, "And now you aren't."

"No," she said rather slowly.

He seemed to be thinking, probably trying to piece together whatever little information she'd given him, which she was sure made her highly distrustful, and most likely lead him to believe that possibly they had done more than sleep.

"Does John know you're here?" he said after a minute of silence.

Or maybe not, maybe Sherlock didn't even consider that a possibility - with _her_  that was.

"Yes,"  _now he does._

"Ah, that simplifies matters," he said with a smirk, "At least John will not question it."

_Oh God._

He seemed intent to stand up, obviously to get dressed.

Sherlock gave the room a curious glance, turning to her fleetingly, "Do you mind?"

"Oh – right," she said directing her eyes to the window, "Sorry."

Not like she hadn't seen it all last night.

His weight shifted, the sound of the duvet being moved, which she hurriedly tried to encircle herself in, ensuring that none of her was revealed to him, as he slowly draped himself in his deep blue robe.

Sherlock took in the room, his eyes sweeping over the general area, until they fully returned to her, catching her eye, and looking at her incredulously.

It was definitively not her fault; she wasn't in the wrong here, maybe a bit silly for not having done what others would have, but then again it was in the middle of the night. Anyone would have difficulties thinking on their feet, right?

Oh, she wondered what was going to happen now.

Would he make her leave?

Since she still didn't have her clothes, and the way he was looking at her with a searching expression didn't exactly help on the butterflies in her stomach. She felt like she'd gone there in the middle of the night and undressed, hoping to seduce him, which in fact would be easier to deal with than what had actually happened. How was he ever going to believe her if she told him the entire truth?

She finally found resolve to face him again, his face had softened ever so slightly, the light pouring onto his frame from the window, as he seemed to be thinking – rather on his feet too, and she dreaded to think what he was going to say or accuse her of now.

"Molly-," he started.

At least it couldn't get any worse.

_CRASH._


	3. Chapter 3

_CRASH_

" _Jesus!"_

Molly jerked backwards on the headboard in surprise as she heard the sound of –  _dishes_  breaking – in the kitchen, which was a sordid relief, but that didn't stop the onslaught of curses that streamed from John's lips apparently, as he was muttering loads in the kitchen. She calmed down a notch, feeling overly alert, and she'd expected to be told off from Sherlock any minute. Except Sherlock took two quick strides with his long legs towards the bedroom door, and seemed to be listening keenly to the sounds beyond.

_It is only plate's…right?_

That's when the sound of John's muttering stopped entirely, and they could plainly hear a pair of heels tottering into their general direction. Molly's jaw dropped – no – no – _no_  – was it a client? It was definitively not Sherlock's brother Mycroft, since he wore solid shoes, and not a pair of heels, though Molly found herself almost laughing at the visual – Mycroft in a pair of high heels. Somehow that thought didn't seem too disturbing, but she bit her laugh at the serious expression Sherlock bore, when he gave her a look. Some woman was still on their way, making a clear path to his bedroom – "Oh – hell – wait – wait – hold on a minute!" said the voice of John who was obviously taking to run, sounding a bit breathless and close by too.

Sherlock's eyes were all alertness now, losing all the softness they had only some few seconds ago, as he took a step back from the door.

Molly's eyes widened slightly, her shoulders tense, as she too listened intently. For a minute it seemed silent, until the bedroom door opened, only to be slammed shut a second later, "No – he's not – he's still asleep," said John, giving to laugh a bit, which apparently was supposed to make the other intruder believe him, which Molly seriously doubted they did. The lie was evident in his voice.

It was then the other voice spoke, "He should be up for breakfast at least, some food will be a good mercy this morning after all that trouble he went through last night – you have a bit of lie down, dear. You look awfully tired," said another voice, belonging quite obviously to the only other resident in the building who'd willingly be up at this hour, and female for that matter; Mrs Hudson.

_Oh God._

Prim-proper Mrs Hudson who'd made quite the spectacle out of Sherlock's rude text-message-alert, when that first popped up – the sort of woman who'd read gossip-magazines, and convey that she didn't care about that – yet knew enough about everyone else. A woman who didn't exactly keep her mouth shut if she were to see this sort of thing, which was probably why Sherlock seemed a tad bit mollified. It was like being caught in the act by ones mum, but they hadn't done anything. Not that they could actually explain the situation to her. Molly was now just a naked woman in his bed, in the middle of the morning, it wasn't like they were having an experiment, and she could almost hear John coming with a lewd comment if that was suggested.

"No, I'm fine – brilliant – in fact – I'm actually sorting out his breakfast," said John obviously stalling.  _Thank God._

"You better tidy up the mess dear – get the sweeper," she said cheerily, obviously John had neglected the plates.

"You couldn't? I'm a bit – (an overly extended yawn was uttered) – tired."

"I'm not your housekeeper, you know."

"Right, well - I'm not in a rush anyway really, but you couldn't just wait a minute – maybe – give him some time. I don't think he's up for breakfast exactly," said John –  _that was the understatement of the year_ \- Molly could easily make him out in her head; standing right in front of the door, shaking his head a bit, and giving one of his most charming smiles in an attempt to dissuade his easily distracted landlady.

Maybe he'd succeed.  _Maybe._

Sherlock's jaw was clearly clenched, before he took to stand in front of the bed again in an imposing stance; hands folded behind his back, a furrow burrowed deep into his brows, while Molly only raised her eyebrows in alarm.

He wasn't going to do anything?

He was just going to stand there?

Mrs Hudson had to be pushing boundaries obviously -  _obviously?_  The fact that the man in his late thirties didn't seem to run crazed around the room, appalled that his landlady was taking liberties was beyond her, and she was wondering why she in fact wasn't on her way out of the window. Not that she could climb out of it exactly dressed only in a duvet, without either dying, or dropping the sheet. Stark-naked clinging to the outside of a building wasn't exactly her way of going out of this world. She'd certainly be remembered.

Why didn't he have locks on his bedroom door? Normal people had locks on their bedroom door. She had a lock on hers - a quick twist, and nobody could enter.

No, his was apparently open to all.

She couldn't exactly expect him to barricade his door either, and he could hardly expect her to hide (not that she wasn't sorely tempted to that, but she'd have to drop the sheet in that case – and she was not going under the bed again – or the cupboard).

Sherlock seemed to notice her distress, mouthing "Stay," to her, which didn't make her any less anxious exactly.

Why on earth _did_  the landlady need access to Sherlock's bedroom in the morning? People weren't even awake. Well,  _they_  were obviously awake, but they were certainly not dressed. John was still in his robe, and she was pretty much tied to Sherlock's bed – not literally – important to point that fact out, as she found herself turning crimson by the sheer idea. At the end of this she might tie him to his own bloody bedpost just out of sheer aggravation with the man. She regretted the imagery, for only a split second this time.

John was apparently still protesting on their behalf though, despite his half-attempts the bedroom door bounced open once more, remarkably smacking shut again, "No – just - give it an hour!"

"He woke me up four in the morning, I think he can stand being awoken – now if you don't mind."

John sighed, obviously giving in at last, as he most likely sympathized. Molly found herself a wee bit confused, she'd come round at midnight, not four in the morning – Sherlock had gotten up during the night? Obviously he had more than one adventure during the night.

The doors opened now, an unusual sight almost, and it included a polite little knock, "Morning – oh, you're up," said Mrs Hudson who'd stepped in, while Molly momentarily hoped that if she shut her eyes no one would spot her.

"Mrs Hudson – good morning," said Sherlock pleasantly with a smile. It was remarkable, for a second she wondered why she didn't hear the woman tutting in disapproval.

Oddly enough, the woman took three quick steps deeper into the room, with John standing in the doorway, and she did not at all see _her_.

Molly opened up an eye out of surprise at not being spotted quite evidently in the man's bed, as John gave her a quick look, clearly trying to supress his impending laughter.

Mrs Hudson was rather busy taking in the sight of the obviously non-drugged Sherlock - "Woke me up in the middle of then night, then? Just so I could do some washing for you – I'm not your housekeeper, dear, but you were so worried last night that your lady-friend's blouse was in tatters. Well – I've sorted out the worst of the blouse after your request of course – sewed on some new buttons -,"  _Blouse? Buttons? Lady-friend?_

Oh.  _OH._

Mrs Hudson had her clothes!

Sherlock had given her clothes to Mrs Hudson.

_To Mrs Hudson?!_

"Oh – did I?" said Sherlock whose eyes flickered towards Molly, before hurriedly returning to the woman.

Molly's mouth flew open, as she stared gobsmacked at her own blouse in the hands of the landlady.

"I've got the trousers in the wash, so they'll be sorted out - at least – well –," and that very minute Mrs Hudson turned around, "It's a very nice-," stopping entirely, when she finally saw her on the bed, under the sheets, obviously without her clothes, as the woman were keeping them hostage.

She should have hidden under the duvet, but honestly – she was just glad her clothes were with Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson who obviously didn't question why Sherlock had woman's clothing apparently, but the fact that she hadn't mentioned her underwear was disconcerting. Still –  _lady-friend?_  He had the sense to mention that apparently.

Mrs Hudson was now just staring.

Molly didn't exactly know what to say, unsure if she should say anything, and finally managed a surprisingly chirpy squeak of, "Good - err - morning," though that seemed itself to be the wrong thing, at the face of the perturbed Mrs Hudson.

"Morning," said Mrs Hudson faintly for a moment, slowly taking in the sight – holding the blouse she'd previously clung to at the edge of her fingertips – obviously now quite filthy with knowledge of what – or who was in Sherlock's bed. The fact that John had protested against her entrance certainly gave the woman the wrong idea.

Molly was screaming internally –  _nothing had happened_  – at all, but considering John's smirk, and Mrs Hudson's exclamation of,

"Oh dear," it was certainly starting to look like it, at least to the landlady who had her clothes, which by all means was highly suspicious. Sherlock didn't exactly have lady-friends who needed their clothes stitched up and cleaned.

"Well -," said Mrs Hudson hastily directing her eyes to Sherlock, "The rest are being dried, but this one – it's – it's  _fine_ ," she finished off settling it at the end of the bed by Molly's feet, avoiding giving her another awkward glance. Obviously she didn't know what to say, and they could hardly expect a comment on the situation at hand, though there'd certainly be plenty of those later on, when the woman brought it up at every other inconvenient moment. She could almost suspect that she'd read something into this, for any onlooker it was certainly confusing, and for John it had to be too. His mind was most likely in the gutter.

Sherlock pursed his lips, blinking ever so slightly, as John gave him a vague tilt of the head, and he remembered to, "Thank you, Mrs Hudson," for the woman was certainly looking for an excuse to leave, and she soon went off without another word casting Molly one last look of absolute surprise, while John stood alone in the doorway trying not to laugh outright at the pair of them.

He continued to stand there, after Mrs Hudson was long gone with his arms clenched at his sides, giving Sherlock a furtive look, but his friend only raised his brows in mild annoyance, "A word," John said with a jerk of his head, as Sherlock was clearly not taking the hint.

Unfortunately, this sentence made Sherlock aware, especially by John's body language that he didn't in fact know that she was supposed to be in his bedroom, and his sharp eyes glued her frozen to the spot. It wasn't exactly like she could leave; her clothes were being dried, and a blouse was certainly not enough to get on with.

"Not now, John," Sherlock said rather coolly.

"I think now's the bloody time, Sherlock," said John a bit more persistent this time, and with a sigh Sherlock followed him out of the room, the door slamming shut in their wake.

It was perhaps not the best idea of both men to be standing right outside the door, as she could hear them talking quite clearly – despite everything being whispered through apparent gritted teeth.

"What the hell is going on?" John spat, as Molly leant against the headboard, trying not to listen, but she couldn't exactly resist.

"Sorry?" said Sherlock attempting to sound baffled.

"Why is Molly in your bed?" said John rather slowly.

There was a minute of profound silence, she almost wondered if Sherlock was slowly miming out his answer, until - "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sherlock – I left you in bed last night –  _alone_."

"Are you entirely certain of that fact?" drawled Sherlock.

"Yes," snapped John in return, "Nobody was there, except you."

"Well, then, obviously Molly isn't in my bedroom as we speak. Can I return?"

"No – you can't just – have you –  _did_  you?"

"Did I what?"

There was a moment of hesitations, before John spoke the words, but wasn't in fact saying it, "You know what I'm talking about."

_Sex,_  Molly countered in her head.

"No, John – I certainly don't know what you're insinuating," in such an innocent manner, as to almost make it believable.

"Mrs Hudson has her clothes for god's sake!"

"Which I gave to her, yes."

"Well, you had to have taken them off at some point."

"Apparently."

More silence followed that, it was clearly a tense moment for the two grown men, and Molly was glad she was in the bedroom for once – a tiny surprise in the midst of the chaos. The worst was really over, except when Sherlock would finally return to the bedroom that was.

"Fine, then, right – don't tell me anything – I told you not to drink that mess, but you did – look where that got you."

"Yes, a naked woman in my bed. Isn't that usually a scenario you wish for yourself?" said Sherlock his voice dripping in sarcasm, as Molly bit back a snort.

"Oh shut up," said John who was now laughing, "Fine – breakfast in – you know what – you'll sort it out yourself – and do give Molly some clothes, will you?"

"I'll get to it, John," said Sherlock, who at that returned to the bedroom, and Molly pretended to be fixated on the duvet.

He gave her a look, knowing fully well that she'd been eavesdropping – it was difficult not to. The doors there were spectacularly thin, not exactly soundproof, so she could imagine Sherlock had to go through many dreadful nights having to listen to John with whoever woman he was currently dating.

Molly hoped her trousers were soon neatly folded in front of the door,  _thank you very much please_ , before Sherlock could manage to interrogate her to pieces that was. Not that her mind didn't try to figure out where her knickers had gone, since that was just absurd, since at least – a blouse and a pair of trousers were innocent, but her underwear would have caused Mrs Hudson's eyes to have gotten wide as saucers. The drugged-Sherlock had obviously hidden those from view, taking that into consideration at least.

Molly directed her own eyes to the blouse that she reached for, her fingertips grazing the new buttons, as she tried to calm herself down.

Yes, well – it had gone from worse to horrifying.

Regarding Mrs Hudson's way of keeping secrets she was surprised that the whole of Scotland Yard didn't come bursting into the bedroom any second in sheer disbelief over the scenario.

Very carefully she raised her head and meet Sherlock's unnerving blue eyes, as they blinked rapidly at her, "You lied?" he said as he repositioned himself in front of the bed, his voice now fully returned to it's usual sparkling form, but he seemed genuinely surprised.

She tried speaking, fiddling with the blouse in her hands, as a means of distracting herself, "Not – exactly," she finally managed to utter, "John didn't know last night, but he learnt that I was here this morning."

Sherlock almost seemed impressed, which deftly caught her off guard, but his mien soon evolved into an impatient look. He seemed resolved however to take everything in a rather slow pace, which didn't help her – it unsettled her that he wasn't a bit more dramatic about it all, as if a part of him expected this to happen.

"Molly," he said fully embracing what she felt was disciplining her every time he said her name in that tone of severity, besides reminding her of last night. She fully expected him to bend her over his knee – and –  _don't think about that now._  It wasn't exactly long ago he was pressed against her with intentions, even in his sleep his body worked against him, and now she was just licking her wounds with the recollection.

"Yes?" she said questioningly folding the blouse in her hands, pretending that she needed to clear it off.

The next question was asked in a gentle, yet still demanding tone, "Why did Mrs Hudson have to sew new buttons on your blouse?"

Her fingertips were gently tugging at one of the buttons, the mere minute he'd said that, and she stopped her fiddling. There was really no good way of saying it, was there?

It was too late to pretend anything else at this point, but she wasn't going to be blunt about it, at least, "They got - ripped off," she said dropping the blouse on her lap, nervously playing with her hair now for relief, except Sherlock just seemed to be scrutinizing her every movement, so she stopped the action entirely.

"How?" he said very slowly.

She looked at him ruefully, "You – err - ripped my blouse open." Oh dear lord, his expression was complete pale-faced disbelief.

He seemed to grabble with the idea for a minute, taking in every aspect of her face, by the look of it, as he with a disgruntled expression said, "Why exactly did I do that?"

An absolutely good question, which she'd love to pose herself, but he was the only one who had the answer to that one really, "Because you wanted me out of it, I suppose," she said in a rather small voice, fixing her eyes anywhere remotely not close to the man himself.

He blinked.

She drew a slow breath, as he tilted his head to the side in clear contemplation.

"Oh," he only said, as his eyes took yet another sweeping glance at the room that obviously had more secrets to reveal.

Her heart was in her throat at this point, thudding powerfully through her chest, as she felt she was more or less wilting in his presence. He was not saying anything, not even a single word that would send her out of his room, as she fully expected really. She was genuinely surprised that he hadn't done that yet, as it was to be expected. She didn't have any reason to be there any longer, except to wait for her clothes to dry, and grabbing some clothes off him seemed like a better idea now. Of course, after this she'd most likely not speak with him for at least a week, or maybe a month, or even a year.

But what exactly did she have to be embarrassed about? Well, there was certainly a list. First of all she'd seen him naked, secondly she'd seen him having at it on his own, then he'd tried to have his way with her, without her uttering any complaint, and now she was facing the third degree. So, there was possibly quite a great deal to turn several shades of red over really, and there was nothing wrong with that. Why couldn't she talk about it – at least to some extent, really? Since she couldn't exactly go on without him somewhat in her life, and trying to avoid the topic would only worsen the aftereffects really.

"I'm not going to embarrassed about it," she said ending the mutual silence.

He appeared to be genuinely stupefied, "Sorry?"

"You tried – err - well – I saw you were drugged – I tried to get you into bed, but you wouldn't let me leave when I tried – so I just stayed –," she mumbled.

"You said," he said impatiently.

"Yes, well John didn't know I was in here."

"Obviously."

She avoided frowning at him, trying to continue her story without any more fumbling, "I didn't really know how I could explain it to him, so I was sort of hoping I could sneak past him this morning – but -," she drifted off, gesturing to herself in the duvet.

"Your clothes, yes," he said with a brief nod.

"Yeah, Mrs Hudson seems to have had them all this time,"  _not including my knickers that is._

"I wanted to rectify the situation apparently," he said grimacing, disbelieving his own actions.

"That's – well – that's nice of you," she said attempting her first proper smile, giving a wee snort even, since it was after all quite naïve of him to think that she couldn't sort her own clothes herself.

Sherlock looked confounded however, "Did I ruin any of your other clothes?"

Obviously, still not entirely getting it.

She coloured, "No -  _no_  – you didn't."

"Then your blouse was the only thing in need of being fixed?" he said taking to walk a stretch in the room, which she was grateful for, since him standing in the stoic position made her insides crawl.

"That's right," she said with a nod.

She could see the cogs slowly turning for him, as if the whole idea was so preposterous, that he'd attempt to do something to seduce her in that state, or seduce anybody at all. He took a deep breath, "What exactly did I say last night?"

"You didn't really talk – that much," she said, and a giggle burst out before she could stop it. She pressed her lips together hurriedly stifling it to death.

He looked shaken by her laughter, and she felt like laughing more, hysterically even, but he looked rather grave.

"I didn't?" he said when she'd quieted down again.

"Not exactly no, but it's fine. I'll just get my clothes back, and I'll leave," she said firmly, resolving to drop her spare keys there, and never attempt to get anything back from him, maybe even not giving him anything to begin with.

That would perhaps make it easier…

Sherlock seemed to be hesitating however, "I apologise," he said, and that made her feel terrible, "For last night, for whatever I might have done."

He shouldn't exactly be apologising, she shouldn't have been there at all last night. It was she who caught him with his kit off, in fact she should be apologising for staring that long, but she wasn't going to mention her being under the table without it being necessary.

He'd probably figure out that bit – his mind worked in such intricate ways; as to always catch her off guard. Only he could make sense of last night really, and she suspected that a part of him already had, but he was obviously being nice –  _by interrogation?_ No, the drugs had certainly muddled his brains a bit.

"Oh, it's – not – a problem, really. I wasn't actually bothered by it," she said with a strained smile.

"No?"

"No," she said shaking her head with a laugh she allowed to release, "It's not often I have a naked man trying to get off with me."

_Oh god._

_No don't – too late._

He blanched at that, while she continued to colour. Her skin was prickling madly, her mouth drying up, as she just gaped profusely at her own stupidity.

"I was - naked?" he said looking at first particularly amazed, then actually amused.

_Oh, right, he didn't know that bit._

_Idiot_ , "Well, of course you were, or you'd – well – be wearing clothes now," she said gesturing to his blue robe.

Hopefully he didn't think she'd personally seen to it that he got out of his clothes, as he had her. She was glad he was dressed now, and that he wasn't in fact still out of his senses, since that would most likely make the situation even trickier. Like the situation could at all become more difficult at this point!

Sherlock's eyes grazed her briefly, "You aren't wearing clothes," he said pointedly.

_Well, you saw to that, didn't you?_ Or her nails wouldn't be digging into the duvet, _or_  she wouldn't in fact still be in his bed.

She hurriedly tried to salvage it, speaking quickly, "You were drugged, Sherlock – you did things out of character and, you were just babbling most of the time."

"You said I didn't say anything in particular," he said meaningfully.

_Fuck._

She was continuously putting her foot in her mouth; it was too late to take it back exactly, "OK - so you spoke  _\- a little_."

"About what?"

_Sex. About sex! You spoke about sex!_

"Oh, just, you know – dreams," she said feeling faint.

It was the truth, however navigated it was from the actual thing he was asking about, but nonetheless it was completely true.

There had been some few moments in her life where she'd caught Sherlock properly unprepared, and this was conceivably one of them, "I spoke to you about my dreams?" he said startled.

She avoided his eyes again, pushing some hair behind her ear, as she tried to find a way of saying something, without saying anything really, "In a way."

Now she was taking a leaf out of his book more or less, being mysterious, unintentionally of course, as she didn't want to say it.

She didn't want to open Pandora's box; it wasn't her job to pry, for he'd oddly enough tell her peculiar things at Bart's - without her ever needing to ask. Molly had always supposed it was because he didn't want her to speak. She never questioned why of all people he bothered divulging if John and him were having a row.

"What exactly  _did_  I say, Molly?" he said a bit more forcefully.

"That you had dreams – that you'd dreamt – about-,"  _Me. You dream about me._   _I've got no idea why of course._

The sentence just fell apart there, and her eyes just stared into his startling blue ones, wondering if this would be her last chance to have a proper look, when he took to finish her sentence for her, "You," he said.

_Oh._

She didn't expect him to say it, and she wasn't surprised to feel a tug at her heart out of the mere mention, of his revealing this fact soberly to her, and she wondered if he was admitting it – or if that was his conclusion.

Another bout of silence crept over the pair, more still than the last, and she hoped he'd speak – that he'd laugh it away to ridiculousness, that he'd convince her that she was delusional, and he'd been out of his mind.

She tried her best, trying to cover it up, "People dream about people, it's quite normal you know, so it's not – don't worry," she said quickly.

"Molly," he said disapprovingly.

"What?"

"Stop lying."

"I'm not lying."

"You are."

"Well, I'm not."

"When you lie – your nose twitches ever so slightly," he said in a rather bored voice, his hand gesturing to her face.

Her hand sprung upwards to her face in a jolt of surprise.

"So you are lying," Sherlock said pleased with himself.

She managed to look upset, as she dropped her hand down to her lap again.

"Would you mind telling me the absolute truth now, or do you intend to draw this conversation out – until - your clothes are dry?" he said with a raised brow.

"Until they're dry," she said anxiously.

He seemed rather disgruntled by this reply, and she was happy she dared say it. She was literally waiting for her clothes at this point, waiting for her happy escape from his quarters, but he seemed rather steadfast to have his answers from her now,

"Molly, when I step out of this room, I will determine quite quickly what happened last night," he said giving her a piercing look, which made her by reflex gulp.

She huffed, crossing her arms, but making sure the duvet hadn't bared all, "And you can't figure that out already?" she bit back.

He smirked obviously pleased that she knew him that well, as his eyes dropped slightly to the floor, before returning to her, "Why were you under the bed?"

_Oh dear lord._

"Dust – there are traces of it having been shifted. I like to keep these areas dusty in case something like this happens," he said taking to point underneath the bed, as if the dust was obvious to anyone's eyes.

_Since this happens often apparently._

"I wasn't hiding under the bed –  _well_  – I was – but not because I wanted to share a bed with you," she said feeling rather frantic that he believe her.

He almost looked affronted.

"You hid from John?" he said wide-eyed, as if she were demented.

"I've never been good thinking on my feet."

"Obviously."

"I'm sorry - shall I talk less - like I do in your dreams?" she said rather angrily, regretting it instantly, for now she'd skirted back into that topic, but she felt somewhat justified. He wouldn't leave her alone for some odd reason, and she had all right to want to escape.

His brows furrowed, and he took to pace again, "You do - _talk_ ," he said with a distant expression, as he avoided her eyes now.

He didn't continue on that, and she could only wonder what she said in his dreams. Did she even resemble herself? Perhaps that Molly was more confident - more sure of herself, less nervous around him, but she defied anyone not to be – in her situation now.

She just felt like saying something, anything, as he only stood quietly in front of the bed not moving, "Oh," she said trying to fill the silence, not that it did much good, as it only made it more evident really.

Suddenly he drew his fingers over his lips, "I kissed you."

The moment he had done that; she could feel her own lips tingling, as she couldn't entirely remember the kiss with the same clarity that she wished. It happened so quickly, so abruptly, with his hands all over her, until she caught sight of him properly, and now she was faced with trying to not revive the images in her head.

"Yes," she said cautiously.

He licked his lips slowly, "It explains the taste," he said, the corners of his mouth creeping upwards.

Molly was sure she had turned a new shade of red, an impossible one at that too, worse than last night's, worse than seeing him in that indelicate position; the heat flooding to her core, as a spark. It was idiotic, he was just remarking on it, yet there she sat utterly speechless.

"I – I suppose," she managed to say.

He gave her an odd look, one that she caught once in a while, that usually shifted to what she'd call indifference, but it didn't now, "The taste will fade," he said engulfing them into more silence.

There he was, always an enigma to her, and certainly one now, as his face resembled that of brooding. Was he in fact brooding, or was it wishful thinking on her part? Was she just seeing what she wanted to see? What she only dared to hope once in while? It was silly really, always such a silly idea in her head, and now – just maybe -, "Sherlock?" she said, her heart pounding.

He recovered swiftly, his expression shielded when he caught her eye, "Yes?" he said.

Molly bit her lip, "So - what kind of dreams are they exactly?"  _He'll never answer that._

"Good ones," he answered without missing a beat, and he was undeniably smirking, his eyes glinting, and she almost felt herself tremble there she sat.

"And?" she dared ask, not that it was much of a question exactly, but she could only hope he'd give an answer this time too.

"Do you want me to  _flesh_ them out?" he said with a smirk still plastered on his face. He was gloriously confident, almost too confident – there was something wrong – something she'd forgotten – it was important, quite important. It's just – he chose to use the word –  _flesh_  - "I assume I attempted to re-enact some of them last night – with - you," he said with a slight nod towards her.

She stared stupidly for a second, until she finally managed to say, "Yeah, err – you were convinced it was a dream."

"Ah."

She tapped her fingers on the duvet, contemplating her next words more carefully than usual, but she still managed to blurt it out rather quickly, "Do you dream about me often?"

He held her gaze with a haunted expression that tore her apart limb by limb - for what seemed to be minutes, ticking away so easily, as he finally drawled, "Yes - though you are much better than a dream Molly."

_Oh,_ that certainly covered up the basics.

"Oh, right. Good – good - that's  _fine_ ," she said in an uncanny cheerful voice, "Well – breakfast, then?"

"Breakfast?" Sherlock said with a raised brow, looking at her in sheer pallid disbelief, while she sat with a wide smile on her face now.

"I'm hungry," she said innocently, blinking up at him in surprise.

"Molly," he said quite severely, and that was the minute she threw the pillow on his head. Sherlock jolted in surprise staring at her in amazement, like she'd never thrown anything on him in her life – well, she hadn't, but he deserved it.

"You remember everything from last night, don't you!" she half-cried out in irritation, as he ducked from another pillow with a flummoxed expression.

It was right while she intended getting up entirely, duvet and all, that Sherlock threw himself on top her, pinning her down on the bed by her wrists, and looking at her with a half-smug half-apologetic expression, if it was even possible, "You lied!" she said disapprovingly, "You've been keeping me in here just so you can ruin everything!"

"Ruin –  _what_ – exactly?" he said, as she glared up at him, his dark curls falling rampant framing his face, "I only ever wanted you to stay."

_Handsome idiot._

"Mrs Hudson told you I was coming last tonight – you knew – that I was coming, then why on earth did you drink the drug?" she snapped, struggling from his grasp, but he held on her tightly, as tightly as he did her waist earlier. She struggled half-heartedly, avoiding the smile that threatened to expose her entirely.

His expression was serious now however, "I hoped it would knock me out so I wouldn't take advantage of you – I barely let you have that emergency key to begin with."

"That didn't work out obviously," she said frowning up at him.

"Yes, it wasn't until I thought I'd woken up from yet another dream – but this time you were there – I – finally allowed myself to –  _let go_ ," he said with a soft smile, looking at her almost nervously now, obviously hoping that she wouldn't really want to leave.

_Git._

"Oh – so – you were yourself when you took off my clothes?" she said carefully, trying to still seem angry, though that was proving to be rather difficult.

"It was purely scientific, as I'm sure your staring was last night," he said with an almost pensive expression hadn't it been for the wicked grin that graced his features.

Molly almost started to giggle, but she was certainly distracted by the weight of him pressed against her, flushing at being so close to him yet again, since they'd been separated most of the morning, but she tried to be sensible, "Let me go Sherlock, or I swear – I'll – I'll -," she faltered.

"What?" he said breathing down upon her, as she felt the weight of him on her body, the duvet and his robe the only barriers between them.

Her brown eyes stared at his very present blue-green hued eyes - that were wondering, obviously asking for permission, as she didn't really want him to let her go at all – he knew the difference – which was why she'd always let him get away with things –  _always_.

He looked genuinely bewildered, almost lost, slowly letting go of her wrists, but she did not push him away.

"You're not-," he said, as he clearly thought she'd leave the minute she had the chance, but she stopped him from talking the second she lifted her head to meet his mouth in a rather frantic kiss –biting into his lower lip, as he soon tasted her mouth in surprise. She pulled him closer to her, their kiss deepening with every movement, edging closer to completely bare skin, desperation burrowing through her every limb.

The robe was discarded – the duvet thrown upon the floor; he was pressed against her, hands clutched on her bare hips, while her legs were entwined around his lower back, as he kissed her mouth, her breast – taking in her nipple with one slow stroke.

Her hands were curled up into his hair, bringing him up towards her mouth once more - his breath ragged against her sighs. Tasting and teasing every bit of her he could, from her neck, to her breast; she begged for him to push inside, feeling his hardened length against her stomach, as she was certainly ready for him - dragging him closer to her centre with her legs.

He thrust himself inside; she threw her head back trying to silence her moan into the mattress, as he pushed in and out of her – languidly at first – to her extreme displeasure.

She clutched at his back, nails digging into his skin, as he started to move feverishly alongside her now undisguised moans – pounding against her flesh.

His hand gripping the bedrail that clashed against the wall brutally, resounding against their passionate moans; her hair flaring out on the mattress, perspiration appearing on his brow and bare torso, as he bit lightly into her neck claiming her skin, licking the spot, while he drove into her, his length filling her – as she bit back the shrieks that threatened to spill enthusiastically from her mouth.

"Oh God," she cried, the minute his mouth was yet against on her nipple, sucking it into a hardened pebble, as she drew his mouth in for another deep entangled kiss.

His movement quickened, speeding up with her moans, as he growled out, "Molly," repeatedly into her ear, and she lost it entirely – her body convulsing, her back almost levitating off the bed, while he clutched her desperately towards him, releasing himself entirely with a half-anguish – half-pleasured expression on his face – as she gave out a last cry of gratification, ecstasy coursing throughout her body.

Sherlock leaned his forehead on hers, breathing deeply, as he gave a soft kiss on her collarbone, upwards her neck, and a light peck on her lips smiling. She certainly couldn't meet his eye at Bart's without wanting to pull him into the nearest broom cupboard for a quick snog, or most likely, much more than that probably - and she couldn't wait.

He slowly drew himself out of her, ending on his back on the bed, and she half-expected him to leave, but he dragged her to him - her head on his chest listening to his pounding heart, as he heaved deep breaths – his fingers tangled in her hair.

They lay there for a while in silence; touching each other's naked bodies, and appreciating everything they'd seen the previous night in secret, or not so secret, as Molly smiled at him. Sherlock suddenly broke the silence and said, "I thought you said you were hungry?"

She licked her lips slowly, settling herself on top of him now, "This is breakfast."


End file.
